by Burke, John
He filled her glass. The tension slackened. The wine tingled faintly against the tip of her tongue, and she saw him smile in sharp appreciation as he, too, sipped it. It was as though, having got the subject of his wife out of the way, he felt that he had said all that needed saying and could now start afresh.
Start what?
Ellen lifted her glass. He smiled again. The ebb and flow of his mood was disconcerting. She thought that he had perhaps been alone too much. He had let himself become absorbed too much in the house. Was he aware of this, and was this why he was reluctant to reopen it now?
The truck coughed sullenly into life. A few seconds later it turned round the corner of the building and bumped its way down towards the trees.
“Central heating,” said David. “Still a lot to be done.”
“It’s an odd time to work on that sort of job, isn’t it?”
“Just delivering. Ready for tomorrow. Or whenever they choose to come. They choose their own hours, these chaps,” said David with affected gruffness.
She waited for some remote sound from the gates. Did she really expect to hear the scrape of the key in the padlock?
His grumbling excuses had no bearing on what he and the driver had been saying to each other.
There was a lull. They finished the main course, she offered to carry the plates out, he objected, and she finished her wine while he went out and returned with Bavarois a l’Orange surrounded by liqueur-spattered orange segments.
As though he had been rehearsing lines in his absence, he said: “You’re not married?”
“No.”
“Or thinking of it?”
“I think of it now and then.”
“But not too seriously?”
“It’s a serious matter. Serious, I mean,” she said, “not solemn.”
“Yes. You’re still calculating. Very wise.”
“Calculating isn’t a word I like.”
“Not what I meant,” he said.
The hunger or loneliness or rebelliousness or whatever it was that had impelled him to invite her here was dissipated. He reminded her of a gauche young man who had somehow attached himself to her a year ago, wined and dined her, told her huskily that he had never met anyone quite like her...and then settled down to staring doggedly at her. She remembered his last-minute, appealingly blundering kisses. After two weeks he told her that he loved her and wanted to marry her. He was both stricken and relieved when she let him down gently. Somewhere, she was sure, there must be just the right kind of girl for him: one he could really love and marry.
David Parr’s uncertainties went deeper and had been allowed to turn too gripingly in on themselves.
“Coffee?” he said.
“I mustn’t stay late.”
“If you’ve got a long drive...if you don’t want to risk these roads at night...”
She was tempted to risk quoting the driver’s warning to him. David had been ordered not to let her stay the night.
She drew her notebook closer to her and made a show of scribbling in it. Meaningless hieroglyphics.
“When will you be reopening?” she asked.
“Why do you keep harping on that?” He was suddenly loud and aggressive again. “Why are you so interested in whether the dump is open or closed?”
“If I’m going to give an accurate report, a detail like that’s rather important. No good sending the starving multitudes up here if you’re not serving.”
“Your book can’t possibly be out before next year.”
“All right. Will you be open next spring? Or summer?”
“Spring, of course. When all this...when everything’s tidied up.”
“Fine.”
Ellen snapped the notebook shut. She got up. He started to say something, but she said what a splendid meal it had been, and how she was glad she had seen the inside of Bryncroeso Hall at last, and what an honest recommendation she would now be able to award it.
“I’ll come down to the gates with you.”
“I can let myself out.”
“No, you can’t. Not very well.”
“But you don’t want to come all that way and...”
“I can walk back. I’ll enjoy it. Breath of fresh air last thing. Nothing I like better.”
She drove down to the gates with him beside her.
The truck driver must have had his own key, then. It was odd that David should keep the place so well sealed up against everybody else, but should trust a supposed local contractor to come and go as he pleased. As he pleased? Very much so, thought Ellen, remembering the bossy fury in the man’s voice.
The gates swam up into her headlights. She stopped and waited for David to get out and open them.
He stayed where he was. His arm slid along her shoulders. He tried to turn her face towards his.
Ellen said: “Don’t tell me this is on the table d’hôte? Or is it just for the a la carte?”
“To special order.”
“Twenty minutes’ wait?”
“Instant delivery.”
She pulled away, her elbow against the door handle.
“It was a lovely evening, David. Thank you. I promise to say nice things about you in the book.”
“You’ll come again?”
“Well, actually, I’ve finished with this particular area. I really must move on.”
“I’m not talking about the perambulating palate bit,” he said. He was still gripping her shoulder. The desperate hunger flared up again. “Come as yourself next time. You’ll do that – you will, won’t you?”
Ellen had called in on a surprised Mrs Lewis Jones on the way to the Hall and checked that there would be a room free for her that night. Now she turned in that direction. Darkness had enveloped the world as completely as it had done so few nights ago: so few nights, yet so long ago.
Tomorrow she would live up to her declaration. She would wash her hands of this district and all its absurdities. That was final. No return visits to Bryncroeso Hall. No response to that appeal in David’s voice.
She turned a corner, and was glad she had been taking it easy down the slope.
A car was rammed halfway through a gap in the erratic drystone wall, its nose trapped between two trees, its boot obstructing a few feet of road. A police car’s blue light blinked steadily, while its headlights beamed full on the fracture in the wall.
Ellen slowed to edge past and glanced out with morbid curiosity. She could now distinguish the true outlines of the tilted car.
It was Mark Nicholson’s white Cortina.
Chapter Five
The door was propped back by one policeman’s arm. His colleague leaned in, braced himself, and took a firm hold. By the time Ellen had drawn in to the side a few yards ahead and got out, Mark was being extricated from the squashed front of the Cortina.
She hurried towards him.
His head sagged forward but he was not dead. He made an effort to straighten up, then slumped against the policeman. “What happened?”
“What d’you think?” said the man who was taking Mark’s weight.
In the stillness under the trees, the dank piney smell was suffused with the reek of whisky.
“What the hell,” Mark was mumbling. “Why did he...what the...”
The policeman holding the door let it squeal in warped agony back into place. He put his arm round Mark’s shoulders.
“There’s willing you are to take a test, sir?”
“Test? Hn?”
“A breath test, sir.”
Ellen said: “There’s something wrong. There must be.”
“Know this gentleman, miss?”
“Yes. He’s a friend. Well, someone I know. Someone I’ve met.”
“And you think there’s something wrong?”
Mark let out a little moan and groped with one hand across the uniformed chest of the officer on his left. He wanted to push himself away and stand on his own, but couldn’t manage it.
The police displayed a s
ort of weary gentleness. While one went back to the patrol car for the equipment, the other eased Mark into a position where he could lean against the slanting side of the Cortina.
Ellen edged along the wall.
“Mark, what happened?”
“Hn?”
When she tried to look into his face and make him see her, the headlights of the patrol car blinded her. She saw only the dark and dazzling silhouette of the constable as he came back with a box, and apparently opened it, and took out a tube which flashed a momentary reflection. Then he was between her and Mark. The movements and the sounds were grotesque. Kids playing at blowing up balloons, or fooling around with tin whistles late at night. “In here, sir.” And Mark’s shaky, stertorous breathing. An explosive puff. “Steadily, sir, if you please.” They crouched attentively over him.
One turned towards the light. “Not much doubt about that, eh?” And, intoning a psalm: “I must ask you to accompany me to the station, sir.”
“It’s...I’ve been...”
A faint trickle of blood ran from under Mark’s hair and down behind his left ear. Ellen said: “You’ve got to get a doctor for him.”
“We’ll be doing that all right, miss.” They half carried, half dragged Mark towards the patrol car.
Ellen said: “I’ll take him in my car.”
“Best with us, miss.”
They were not being brutal or dismissive. Just matter-of-fact. When Mark had been settled into the back seat, one of the constables came back with two red lanterns which he set a few feet out and away from the crash.
They drove off. Ellen followed.
The police station was in a village whose existence she had never suspected. To reach it they had to swing violently right down a narrow road which for some hundreds of yards could take single-line traffic only. She wondered if it was on Mark’s maps. He was in no fit state to notice for himself.
The policemen helped Mark into the station. Ellen parked on the far side of the street and went up the steps after them. The desk sergeant studied her with frowning Cymric suspicion.
They waited for the doctor to arrive. Ellen sat beside Mark on a bench, every now and then taking his weight as he crumpled towards her. He stank of liquor. The sergeant asked one of the constables something in Welsh, and there was a mumbled interchange. Then the sergeant looked over Ellen’s head and, addressing the cold wall behind her, observed: “Right, then. Someone’ll have to take him home. Unless there’s keeping him here we are, to cool off.”
Mark tried blearily, at last, to steady his gaze on Ellen. He put his hand to his head and winced.
“Wha’you doing here?”
“What are you doing?” she retorted. “And what have you been doing to get you here in this condition?”
“Sounds Welsh,” he slurred. “Place must be corrupting you.”
“Corrupting? What about yourself?” Mark held his head back and stared fixedly out across the room. The attempted change of focus was too much for him. He began to sway again. Ellen shoved her shoulder against his to prevent him from collapsing.
The sergeant leaned over his desk. “Won’t keep you long, sir.”
“Should hope not.” Mark was assembling words carefully. “Look, you should be out looking for that maniac. Out looking. Not keeping me...holding me...here.”
“Maniac, sir?”
“He flagged me down. I thought he wanted a lift. I was a mug to stop, but...I thought...” Mark’s eyelids drooped. Ellen took his hand. “Just reached in and...knocked me out. Could have got out of the truck.”
“Truck, sir?”
“It’s a plant. Must be. I’ll understand it. Later.”
“I’m sure you will, sir.”
The door was pushed vigorously open. A small man with a doctor’s bag stamped in. He looked at Mark, allowed himself a little pout, and approached the desk.
“Fine time to drag me out.”
“Sorry, Dr Morgan, but there’s been a crash.”
“Anybody else?”
“Just him, Doctor.”
The doctor had another look at Mark. He sniffed.
“Will you come through, sir?” said the sergeant.
Ellen helped Mark to his feet. He gently shook her hand away and walked with teetering deliberation towards the door beside the desk. The doctor fell into step, one arm lifted in case of emergency.
“Won’t keep you long, miss.” The sergeant pushed some papers to and fro on his desk. “Often gets like that then, does he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Best find out, eh, before...” He caught the indignation in her eye and cleared his throat and went back to the papers. She thought he was probably teetotal and a chapelgoer.
Mark reappeared in a few minutes carrying a small package.
“A sample for myself,” he said sourly. “For my own analysis. Good ninety proof stuff.”
The doctor and one of the constables came out behind him. They grouped themselves round the desk. Any minute now, thought Ellen, they would surely burst into a Welsh dirge in flawless harmony – minor key, of course.
The doctor snapped the catch on his bag. “One contusion, one gash behind left ear. Not even worth stitching up. A bit dazed, that’s all. Not just by the drink,” he added with a flicker of puritanical honesty rather than kindness.
“Driving licence?” said the sergeant. “Mm. Any other confirmation of address, sir?” He waited patiently as Mark fumbled for his wallet. “Thank you. Yes. Would you like a cup of tea?”
Mark snorted.
“You’re welcome to one,” said the sergeant, hurt.
Mark turned imploringly towards Ellen.
“If you’re going to take him off with you, miss,” said the sergeant, “perhaps I could have your address, too. Right? You are going to be responsible for him getting home or somewhere – are you?”
“Well...”
“Otherwise it’s here we’ll have to keep him till he sobers up. And then what’s he going to drive?”
“Not that mess up the bwlch,” said the constable.
Ellen dictated her name and address. As she took Mark’s arm and turned him towards the door, the sergeant said:
“Don’t let him drive, mind.”
“My car?” said Ellen. “Not likely.”
“We’ll be having that wreck of his towed off to Jenkins’ garage. Better go and see about it first thing in the morning, when he’s slept it off. You got somewhere to stay round here?”
“Yes,” said Ellen. She volunteered nothing further. The sergeant looked as though he were debating whether an immorality charge could be added to the existing accusations.
She was unprepared for Mark to break away as they reached the door.
“But I tell you,” he shouted, “you ought to be out there looking for him. The one who coshed me. That stuff must have been poured over me afterwards.”
“And into you, sir.”
“That’s right. Right!” said Mark suddenly, wonderingly. “I’m beginning to remember. I was half awake. Half conscious. Head hurting like hell, and I couldn’t get a hold of anything. He did shove a bottle at me, and tip it down, and I know I coughed and tried to push him off, and I coughed a lot of it up but he poured some more in. I tell you...”
“Yessir. You’ve told us. We’ll make a note of it.”
No harm in trying, said the desk sergeant’s wry grin. But you don’t really expect us to believe it, do you?
They went out into the night air. Mark gulped unhappily. Ellen was afraid he was going to be sick. But he plodded with drunken gravity down the steps and managed to fold himself into her car unaided.
Ellen wound the window down to dilute the fumes.
She said: “Now. What’s all this about?”
“Better get away from here or they’ll think up something else. Wouldn’t put it past ’em. Importuning. Or loitering with intent. Intent to what? Never mind. Anything to make a real killing while they’re at it.”
Ellen drove off. As they climbed the hill she said: “I more or less agreed to take you home. Where’s home?”
“Richmond.”
“Yorkshire or Surrey?”
“Surrey.”
“Either way it’s too far. We’ll have to find somewhere for you to sleep it off, as the sergeant put it. And then have a look at the damage tomorrow.”
Automatically she took the one route which she knew in these parts. Within a few minutes they were on the asphalt beside the Pride of the Valley. Ellen flipped on the interior light.
“Ready to tell me now?”
Mark groaned. He tapped his chest with his hand as though testing whether it would bear the strain of protracted speech.
“You heard most of what I told them in the station. I was flagged down. Hit over the head. And I can just remember – it’s all coming back – having whisky poured down my throat. Poured in, and sloshed all over me. And then he hit me again.” With wary fingers he explored the back of his head. “The police doctor wrote that off as the result of banging my head when I crashed. Only I didn’t crash. The car must have been shoved off the road hard, with me in it. And there I was left.”
Ellen felt cold. Not just because the window was down.
“Like the man on the boat,” she said.
“Mm?”
“Dr Mansell. The man who banged his head on the boom and was drowned.”
“That’s right. If someone was anxious to get him out of the way, and to make sure I was off the road so I couldn’t follow that truck...”
“Fill me in on the truck, please,” said Ellen.
“It could have been a man from that. Stop round the corner, get out and pretend to be in trouble, flag me down...and make sure I’m off the road from now on. Give me a little discouragement.”
“Morgan Jones,” guessed Ellen, “decorator and heating engineer?”
“That’s the one. But only for part of the trip.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. But...” He put his hand to his head again. Then he said: “Just a minute. How do you know about the Morgan Jones business?”
“We’ll talk about it in the morning. Right now we’d better get you tucked into bed.”